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Wednesday, 7 December 2011

I’m not one for bucket lists. Never at any
point since learning of my secondary cancer – hell, at any point at all – have
I ever looked back at my life so far and found gaps in the things I’ve done.

Go on, then.

I haven’t visited every continent, but I
don’t need to. I haven’t become a best-selling author, but I don’t need to.
Everything I could have hoped to achieve in my life – let alone by the time
I’m 32 – I have done. I have an insanely happy marriage, I own my own home,
I’ve made a living doing something I love, and I’ve surrounded myself by the
loveliest of lovely people while I’ve done it. Job’s a good’un. I mean, yeah,
it’d be nice to see New York someday and yeah, it’d be nice to finally get a
cheeky snog off Dave Grohl – but neither are things that I’d be devastated to
never have done. (Especially, I have to say, the Grohl thing. Soon after
hearing about my cancer spread, I thought: ‘Well you’ve had your chance, mate…
and besides, you’re no Peter Lynch’.)

That’s not to say that I don’t still have
goals – quite the contrary; it’ll take more than The Bullshit to do away with
my ambitious streak – more that I just don’t believe in looking at your life in
terms of the stuff you haven’t done. Nor do I believe in having regrets. I
mean, fair enough, that hugely unflattering bob with the side parting
practically skimming the top of my left ear might not have been the smartest
idea I’ve ever had, and I probably could have done without the seventh tequila
that saw me sharing a cab home with a boy who, rather than finding his luck in,
found himself being puked on… but hey, you can’t be repenting the kind of daft
decisions that have made you who you are. (Unless, I s’pose, you’re Kim
Kardashian.)

Yes, slimline tonic. Because that made
all the difference at Glastonbury.

There is something, however, that I have,
very recently, felt shamefacedly defeated into having to class as a regret; something
that, to anyone not staring down the barrel of the most bullshitty of Bullshit
prognoses, might seem pretty insignificant. Petty, even. But – having not just
admitted to it in one of mine and P’s signature world-to-rights chats, but
found myself noisily sobbing at the confession – let me assure you that it’s
far from trivial. In fact, even as I write about this, I’m getting
progressively more angry with myself. Furious, in fact, at all the time – all the
precious, precious time – that I’ve squandered
worrying myself into a frenzy about what I look like. Because now – in a place
where, coof, am I fast realising what’s important – nothing seems like more of
a criminal misuse of a life than the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months (dare
I say even years?) spent fretting about my weight, my skin, the size of my
arse, the circumference of my thighs, the thickness of my ankles, the shape of
my belly button, the shovel-like span of my hands, the inward slant of my left
knee, the… well, you get the picture. Doubtless because, in your own way,
you’ve probably done it too.

Over the last few days we’ve had P’s eldest
brother staying with us: officially the easiest company to whom you could ever
grant the use of a spare room. Terry is the spa-visit of house guests; never
expectant of being ‘entertained’, never mindful of a schedule, simply happy to
just hang out; to just relax; to just be.
One of the most brilliant things for P about having his big brother visit from
Spain, however, is the time they spend in the kitchen – and, when not in the
kitchen, in the local deli, or with their heads in cook books, or on the sofa
watching food shows. Ordinarily, I’d let them get on with it, busying myself
with other stuff, but this time I got involved, taking an interest in the
recipes and salivating along with every egg-crack and every chopped herb of Nigel
Slater’s latest creation. And cor blimey, was it a joy.

Because it IS a joy, isn’t it, food? It’s
there to feel glorious about, not guilty about. And yet, far too often have I
seen it as the latter. ‘Ooh, well I didn’t ought to be having butter over Flora,
lest I find myself unable to squeeze into that frock.’ ‘And hm, perhaps we
could meet for dinner at Wagamama instead of Itsu? I can recite the Weight
Watchers points of their entire menu, see, so if we go there I’m all set.’ What
a fucking drag. It’s shameful, really: if you add it all up, I’d be willing to
bet my flat that I’ve spent more minutes worrying about what the outside of my
body looks like than worrying about the preposterously vile things that have
been happening within it. And what a stupendously idiotic waste of time. (Either
way, to be fair.)

Hommana hommana.

Frankly, I should have spent more time channeling
Nigella. Not necessarily in a making-pea-and-pesto-soup-to-drink-from-a-flask-on-the-back-seat-of-the-bus
way because, well, comeON. (In real life, some little
shopping-centre twatclacker with his arse hanging out of his kecks would see
you sitting smugly on the number 53, use said flask to thwack you round the head and nick
your handbag.) But certainly I should have spent more time channeling Nigella in
the way that she approaches eating: as an unbridled pleasure. Nigella loves
food – and she loves telling you that she loves food. And yeah, it might have
made her fluctuating weight the source of gossip-column fascination (hello, Daily Mail) but really, who gives a
shish kebab? The fact is, Nigella Lawson is HAWT,
saucy hips and all, and anyone who thinks otherwise is clearly a few peas short
of a casserole. It’s like she said herself in Stylist this week: 'I think that appetite is seen as hearty in
a male and slightly wanton and lascivious in a female, but that's just about
perception… Eating
is a great joy in life.One's got to make sure it does give
happiness.' Well, amen to that.

This last few days, then, I’ve rejoiced in
the delight of food as though it were an old mate who I’d always been fond of
but with whom I’d never really spent the requisite time. (A reality that’s even
more criminal when you’re married to a chef as talented as my husband.) Hence,
with Terry staying, we treated ourselves to chicken and sweet potato chips
while watching Corrie; we woke up to Marmite
on crumpets and milkshakes packed with banana and strawberries; we enjoyed a
Monday-night beef rendang with a spicy salad and, before we went to bed,
cradled mugs of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows on top. We put P’s first
ever pizza dough to the test with pancetta and spicy tomatoes and basil. We watched
endless episodes of Man vs Food (go, Adam, go!) and planned a dream route of
all the chow-down stops we’d call at on a drive across America. We baked two
Christmas cakes and fed them with insane amounts of brandy. And, having asked
of one of my doctors ‘is there anything I could be eating that might help my
bones?’ and being told ‘cheese and milk’, I made a plan to give P a night off
caring for me so he can go to his work Christmas party while two of my best
mates come over to scoff our way through a cheese board. (Today, prior to my
chemo being administered, it was revealed that my haemoglobin levels were
unusually low, meaning that I’ll have to be given a blood transfusion on Monday.
Softening the blow somewhat, however, was the advice that eating more red meat
and drinking the odd half of Guinness wouldn’t do me any harm. Tsk – the
hardship, eh?)

Pie = joy.

And not once over the last few days of
happy eating – not even once, not even a little bit – did I feel bad about
doing so. And you know what? I suspect I might even look better because of it. (Do you know how many calories there are in guilt?) Because, at last, I’m allowing
myself to have what I want without mentally beating myself up about it
afterwards. Not to an excessive point, you understand: just to a point where,
if I fancy a hot chocolate and a Tunnocks Teacake, then I’m damn well going to
have one. (In the Best Present Idea Ever, a mate of mine was excellent enough
to have THREE BOXES of them delivered to my flat this week.) And what’s more, I’m
going to have a big old cheeky grin on my face while I do. And probably get the
sticky marshmallow bit all over my gob. And not give a shiny, shameful shit.

While we’re at it, then, I might as well
admit to further making up for wasted time by – in a move that’s surprised me every
bit as much as my startled reflection – allowing people to see me without
make-up. And you know what? The world hasn’t
imploded in on itself! I’m scraping back my hair into a half-arsed ponytail
when I can’t be bothered straightening it. I’m allowing my pyjamas to become
acceptable attire to be seen in when people come to visit (‘Yoda Says Relax’
T-shirt and all). I’m letting the pile of unorganised mail remain on the
ottoman in the front room because I’ve got better things to do than file it
away. And, bugger me, nobody appears to think any less of me because of it. Don’t
take from this that I’m letting myself go. Quite, I hope, the opposite – I can
still overdo the eyeshadow and style the arse off a mantelpiece of candles with
the best of ’em. It’s just that, along with the revelation that there are far
bigger concerns than the numbers on the scales, has come a freedom; an abandon;
a permission to enjoy.

There will doubtless be people reading this
with a skepticism about my new-found couldn’t-give-a-shit-ness when it comes to
stressing about my weight and suchlike. ‘But being overweight can increase
one’s risk of cancer!’ they’ll be thinking – and, to a certain extent, rightly
so. But I’m afraid that overly simplified logic (hello again, Daily Mail) simply does. not. apply. to
the millions of normal, everyday, unremarkable people like me who’ve lived
their lives eating cautiously (while still being able to put away a box of
Cadbury’s Fingers in one inhalation), looking after themselves (while still occasionally
overdoing it on the gin), and getting a sporadic bee in their bonnet about
doing more exercise (while still refusing ever to run for a bus, no matter how
late).

It’d be dead easy to attribute those
parenthesesed simple joys to the occurrence of cancer in otherwise healthy,
everyday people (actually, it’d be a masterclass in lazy journalism) but,
sitting here in my chemo chair with an egg and spinach sarnie in one hand while
typing with the other, I dare say I’m qualified to state that, actually, that’s
utter bollocks. Because, hey! Guess what? There might be a thousand
blah-causes-cancer studies to keep the right-wing press in business but, in
fact, most of those things have got fuck all to do with The Bullshit. Cancer
just happens. And it happens to people like me and you – healthy, happy, mindful,
mostly looked-after, not-especially-overweight people who’ve wasted chunks of
their lives worrying about far more trivial concerns. It happens to us every damn
day of the week, with sod all explanation. So if avoiding cancer really was
about living like a saintly, well exercised, sensibly fed, low-stressed,
spa-treated picture of virtue, then why the hell has it happened to a
decathlete mate of mine, a runner mate of mine, a vegan mate of mine, and a
mate of mine so supermodel-gorgeous that the presence of The Bullshit beneath
her beautiful skin seems as inappropriately at odds as Mary Poppins being a child-thumping
chain-smoker of a battleaxe. Because, contrary to what we’d all like to believe, The
Bullshit is something of which we’re not, in fact, in any kind of control.

With every passing month, the business of
‘curing yourself’ of cancer through eating a certain way is getting bigger and
bigger and, even as a faithful proponent of the drugs-for-the-good approach, I
can perfectly understand why. It must feel like seizing back some power; taking
charge; managing things for yourself. And, given that there are many success
stories to be found, fair dos for anyone giving it a go. For me, though, the
idea of denying myself certain foods, or certain activities, in the belief that
they’ll not be good for my health isn’t one that fits with my way – okay, my new
way – of doing things. I’m not suggesting that I’m going to be blindfoldedly rollerblading
my way to the chippy for a deep-fried Mars bar – just that, after a lifetime
mentally kicking myself in the coochie for anything that might have had even
the tiniest of adverse effects on my stomach, I’m going to pay more attention
to the things that have a favorable effect on my soul instead. My doctors are
doing their bit, and I’m doing mine: by keeping myself happy. And in my belief
system, daft as it may sound, keeping happy is what’s going to keep me alive.

My home city in sandwich-board form.

See, without wanting to sound like some
sort of super-wanky born-again new-ager, there are things that I’ve come to
realise lately about the greater meaning of this thing called life. (Sheesh, if
I should be kicking myself in the coochie about anything, it’s that sentence.) Specifically,
that the small pleasures are ALL. Hence these past few days – which,
incidentally, have come at the end of my three-weekly phase of chemo (two
Wednesdays on, one Wednesday off), during which I feel better than at any other time
throughout the mostly crappy cycle – have not been about grabbing the opportunity
to go large, but instead taking pleasure in the simple joys. Getting in bed at
7pm and chatting until 1; trying to outdo each other at Countdown; taking receipt of my new wheelchair and using it as an
excuse to get to the chirpy little caff down the road for a fish-finger butty; wooly
socks; wrapping Christmas presents; Stevie Wonder; inventing new expletives to text to my mate
Ward; writing; Plants vs Zombies; predicting the next four weeks of Coronation Street storylines; pleasing punctuation; cobs and pop; eating cheese
and biscuits in bed and having them nicked by the cat; dreaming up competitive
eating challenges at which we reckon we could excel (introducing the Battle of
the Barrelful of Cadbury’s Fingers); snogging in inappropriate places; tweeting in the bath; new pyjamas; jokes
from friends; funny little SMS chats with Busby about the Daily Mail’s latest obsession with Miranda Kerr (She drinks coffee!
She runs errands! She wears leather trousers! She’s the only person in the
world ever to have a baby! She knows how to get her husband ‘in the mood’! She’s
JUST LIKE US!); perfect cups of tea; crap telly; fairy lights around the front window; White
Company tree decorations; mixtapes made by mates; listening to P sing Alejandro while he’s cooking... This – the uncomplicated, contented,
daft little delights, and appreciating how lucky you are to have them – are
surely what life is all about? I may be completely wide of the mark, of course
– it might turn out that, in fact, the most important things are career and
kids and never missing a mortgage payment – but if I’m wrong, well, I’ll be
glad to be.

Because, actually, I’m all for the small
things. I don’t care if they mean I’m a simpleton; I don’t care if they contain
more calories; I don’t even care if they make me look like the kind of vacuous
mop-head who considers The Only Way Is
Essex to be an important social commentary. (Because I don’t, obviously. I
really, really don’t. *cough*). It’s just that these are the kind of things
that tickle my pickle, that blow up my skirt and twist my melon. And though I’m
sure the more serious folk out there may view these kind of pleasures as unnecessary
stuff that could easily be trimmed – the flab of life, if you will – I’m sticking
with them. Because, as I heard one of the Hairy Bakers say on telly the other
night, ‘fat means flavour’. And, by ’eck, that’s a corker of a mantra that I can’t help regretting it took incurable cancer to make me understand.

As ever, Lis, I not only whole heartedly agree with you, but that was also just what I needed to read.

"X causes cancer" infuriates me beyond belief; because whilst I may not be either a decathalete or a gorgeous slip with supermodel looks, I have done nothing, absolutely nothing, to cause my cancer. I just can't tolerate it. Because as soon as you get to "eating this causes cancer" and "doing that causes cancer" then blame is immediately created and there is no blame. (Which I'm finding fucking impossible to deal with. No blame for your bullshit, nor mine. No fault, no responsibility, no control.)

You are a wonder. And messages, tweets and blog posts from you are definitely a significant part of the 'little things' that make life truly wonderful.

As ever, Lis, I not only whole heartedly agree with you, but that was also just what I needed to read.

"X causes cancer" infuriates me beyond belief; because whilst I may not be either a decathalete or a gorgeous slip with supermodel looks, I have done nothing, absolutely nothing, to cause my cancer. I just can't tolerate it. Because as soon as you get to "eating this causes cancer" and "doing that causes cancer" then blame is immediately created and there is no blame. (Which I'm finding fucking impossible to deal with. No blame for your bullshit, nor mine. No fault, no responsibility, no control.)

You are a wonder. And messages, tweets and blog posts from you are definitely a significant part of the 'little things' that make life truly wonderful.

Completely agree. I had a similar revelation when I got my cancer diagnosis.I like to think I'm now growing old disgracefully, on the understanding that I may be working to a very much tighter schedule than I would like...So, go for it girl!

just adore your blog lisa it's so inspiring plus you're just such a fabulous writer i adore losing myself in your words - great positive post and i totally agree that we should value the small pleasures in life!!xx

In a pan put 150g of non-smoked more-grease-than-meat bacon, cut in small cubes (1cm), with just a spoonful of extra virgin olive oil. Ideally, you want the bacon that comes from the cheek of the pork ("guanciale" in Italian, see ).Put on a very low fire, covered with a lid. The grease should veeeery slowly melt, and the bacon should fry on its own grease.This takes at least 10/15 minutes, so that most of the grease is melt, and the grease cooks itself to loose its acid taste.Finish cooking the bacon without the lid to make it darker.The cubes should be midway from tender to crusty - I like them more crusty than tender. Some people say it is called 'carbonara' (from 'coal') since the bacon should be quite crusty.At the end, if you did not get enough melted grease, add some more extra virgin olive oil (see below).Slice finely one big onion, and add it in the pan on medium fire.It should slowly become light brown and well cooked; its volume should be drastically reduced.

In a bowl, beat two full eggs and an egg yolk (or one full egg and two egg yolks if the eggs are big) to get a rather dense mix. Add a pinch of salt and a generous amount of ground pepper; some people say it is called 'carbonara' (from 'coal') because of the abundant pepper.

Grate 80g of Parmigiano Reggiano parmesan cheese.

Chop finely some parsley.

Have all of the above prepared before even starting to think about boiling the spaghetti.

Put 250g of spaghetti De Cecco (if I remember well from my years in Mcr, Sainsbury's should have it; if not downgrade to Barilla) in *abundant* boiling water, and immediately add two quite big pinches of coarse salt (here you can see the importance to have an Italian imprinting to understand the right quantity of salt).When they are cooked (there is no other way than learn this by trial and error; the minutes on the box are bullshit, since it depends heavily on many side conditions), very quickly drain the pasta and immediately after put it in a big bowl; it should not completely loose all of its water otherwise it becomes too dry to absorb the condiment.

Add the grease/bacon/onion and mix; the spaghetti should become all greasy on their surface (from this you can understand how much melted grease you should get from the bacon).Add the beaten eggs and mix; they should now wrap the spaghetti like a velvet coat; the eggs should *not* become cooked by the heat of the pasta.Add the parmesan and mix.Add the chopped parsley and mix.

Call immediately P. and enjoy the dish!

Suggested accompanying wine: a strong red (Italian or Australian or Argentinian).

While it's nothing like what you're having to deal with, thank you for the reminder that my bloody autoimmune disease isn't my fault & that worrying about trying to fix myself with every mouthful that I eat and action that I take isn't getting me anywhere. Time to shake myself free and find joy in the big and small things again. You're absolutely inspirational, thank you! xxxooo

Hello everyone! Thank you for such lovely, encouraging words - as ever. You do know how much they help, right?

I had to leave a special message for Enrico, however: me and P just woke up to your comment and are very excited indeed about trying out your carbonara. I continually whinge that carbonaras in most restaurants are crap, but this one looks like a total corker. Thank you so much!

Huge love to you all, and enormous, heartfelt thanks for the continued support.

This post was so good I disn't notice my train arrive and now will be late for work. Which is a compliment!

I had a friend die in a car crash last month and one of many thing I found myself thinking in the aftermath was how glad I was he had always eaten real butter, and enjoyed food without guilt and encouraged me to. Because in the end, for him, it didn't make a whit of difference.

This post was so good I disn't notice my train arrive and now will be late for work. Which is a compliment!

I had a friend die in a car crash last month and one of many thing I found myself thinking in the aftermath was how glad I was he had always eaten real butter, and enjoyed food without guilt and encouraged me to. Because in the end, for him, it didn't make a whit of difference.

Thanks for posting this Lisa! It's easy for others who haven't been dealt this hand to go on about vitamins/minerals/exercise/lifestyle/whateverelsetheydecideisthecause, and (inadvertently) make you feel guilt and blame for bringing this on yourself. Which we most certainly did not! I was a regular girl, didn't eat tooo badly, didn't smoke, wasn't overweight, was nice to people, spent time with my nana (i.e. always thought my karma was OK) yet the bullsh*t's happening to me, and countless others who don't deserve it. Blame is the single most unhelpful thing others can place on you at this time. Thanks for talking about it and once again articulating some of the worries swimming around in my brain xxoxoxoxo

Maarten and I are Mega foodies...we started a cooking club with friends, which gets grander every time (ask me about the chocolate themed dinner-fabulous..)

But I always find it an interesting juxtaposition that we went to the best restaurant in the world (el Bulli), which kick started my culinary journey, 6 weeks before we found Maarten's tumour. Highs and lows but there you are.

Lisa, I've not posted a comment before but have been an avid reader of your blog ever since my own breast cancer diagnosis last year. Like so many others, I have found it continually inspiring - and remarkably synchronistic with my own experience.

Oh, Sophie – I'm so sorry, mate. Please know that you can do this. Know that there are plenty of people out there living long lives as normal as they can manage, even despite this. And know that any time you're feeling like you're stuck on the shittiest of remote desert islands, you're not alone. Keep on truckin', darling. xx

Twatted the proverbial nail on head again, I see. Well done, you.I *know* the bloody press do it on a tiresomely regular basis, but don't they bloody realise how that horrendously patronising you-gave-yourself-cancer-by... (insert everyday vice of choice here) shizzle insults the vast, vast majority of those dealing with what's largely a RANDOMLY-targeted disease? WHY do they spew this guff out? Is it some obligation to a long-forgotten department of useless and misleading public information???? *Slow news day, let's give 'em some nonsense from the Nanny-knows-best file."Gah.

Lisa... totally understand where you are coming from... so bloody true. As usual your blog makes me laugh... keep smiling that beautiful smile hun... so pleased you haven't blocked me as im a forest fan, we all have our crosses to bear don't we lol. Sending you a squidgy hug xxx

Oh, Lisa, I couldn't agree more with your take on this "something you did (wrong) caused your disease" bullshit that unfortunately is still stuck in some people's mind. As much as I admit that there are healthy and less healthy lifestyles and that less fat and sugar is probably more healthy than too much fat and sugar, I absolutely agree that some and especially the major bullshitty diseases just happen and there is nothing we who got them did to get stuck with our diseases.

Just a few weeks ago I talked to someone who is actually convinced of Louise Hay's (author of several selfhelp books) theory that you can heal yourself and you just have to change the parts of your life/behaviour that have caused the sickness in the first place. According to Mrs Hay I've got Multiple Sclerosis because of my "mental hardness, hard-heartedness, iron will, and inflexibility." And I absolutely refuse to accept that I did inflict this shitty disease on myself.

I absolutely agree with you on the other hand, that being happy and doing the things you love and NOT feel guilty about it, is the right and only way to live your life (disease or not). And that being in a happy and guiltfree state of mind actually does help. Sadly enought it might not cure whatever health issues we have to deal with, but I've learned by now that positives thoughts, positive activities, relaxation and happiness do help to make life worth living. Feeling guilty does not!

That's coming from someone who will have finished half of a 100g Milka chocolate bar before "Love Actually" DVD comes to an end tonight :-))

Lisa you are fab. I found the news this week about eating and cancer so upsetting. I want to know why young and healthy people are getting it because I'm pretty sure it's got nothing to do with getting five a day. Your wise words really help. xx

Lisa, bought my first box of Tunnock's teacakes in years the other day (inspired by your fairy godmother's (mate's) gift featured on Twitter) and ate all 6 teacakes in same day (cos they're better fresh-right?!! and once the box is open and the air gets in....well-not much to do but eat 'em up!!).

I'd forgotten (how??) how good they were.

You rock girl-and your writing is a joy to read. Content is inspiring (that you must know), but your style....

I read this quote by Jeffery Eugenides this week "There are moments in novels which are absolutely true–and those are the kinds of novels I want to write".It is those moments that you, my dear, keep nailing EVERY time so keep up the good work!

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Welcome to the website of me, Lisa Lynch: author, editor, blogger, wife, Ram, telly-addict, doofus, cancer bitch (but not, I hasten to add, cancer's bitch). The latter of those things is what initially got me blogging, swearing my way through The Bullshit following a pesky breast-cancer diagnosis at 28. Some three years down the line – with newly grown hair, a newly published book and a newly perky rack – I dared to assume that I'd seen the worst… only for the c-word to crop up once more: this time in my bones and brain, and this time incurable.

And so, from being a blog intended to chart my evolution from 'the girl who has cancer' to merely 'the girl', it seems we're back to the former. (If, indeed, it's still acceptable to even call yourself a girl in your thirties. Which, let's be honest, it probably isn't.) But before you write this off as Just Another Moany Health Blog, stick with me. Because cancer or no cancer, curable or incurable… I'll still tell it the way I see it. The universe might be in control of what’s going on in my body, but I'm in control of what’s going on in my blog. Which is why I hope you'll continue to join me as I write my way through my experiences. You see, this isn't a story about some poor, unlucky lass being taken down by cancer; it's simply a story about the extraordinary life of an ordinary girl woman.

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